If you like my art, sketches, stories, transformations you can find more like this on my Patreon page or in DeviatArt Premium Early Access folder for subscribers here. Every bit of support is truly appreciated, but just having you here means the most to me - without you, none of this would have been possible. Thank you very much!
Check also my shop at DeviantArt for other works
Water droplets gently tapped against the tiles of the shower stall, running down my shoulders and back. I stood facing the cool wall, palms pressed against it as if I wanted to push it in, feeling the hot water flowing along the curves of my new body. My breasts, still like heavy weights, swayed slightly with every movement, making me painfully aware of how ridiculous I looked. Every touch of water against them felt especially sharp, as if it was deliberately reminding me that now—they were mine.
I clenched my teeth, staring at the gray grout between the tiles, trying not to think about how I must look from the outside. I didn’t want to turn around—mostly because I didn’t want to see how the other women in the communal shower were looking at me. To them, I was just another woman, maybe with breasts that made me feel awkward and those absurdly wide hips. For them, I was just another visitor in the women’s bathhouse. But in my head, everything screamed that I didn’t belong here. In the mirror, I couldn’t stop seeing my own face—only younger and, damn it, more feminine.
I pressed my palms harder into the cold tile, as if I could sink into it and disappear. Somewhere to the side, two girls giggled as they walked to the next showers, and I felt everything inside me tighten.
Click. The faucet gave a final spurt of hot water and went silent. Still facing the wall, I reached for my towel, threw it over my breasts, and wrapped it around my hips. I pulled it higher, but I could still feel the fabric stretched too tightly against my wet skin. Damn it, am I really going to have to live with these things and wear towels like this forever now?
Taking a deep breath, I turned.
Standing in front of me, like a ghost appearing out of nowhere, was Samantha—my wife, or rather, now officially my “legal guardian.” I had to look up to meet her eyes. God, I remember how she used to stand on her tiptoes to kiss me back before all this chaos with “chrysalis.” And now… She was smirking, holding a small towel in her hands and looking down at me.
— What? — I mumbled, looking up at Samantha, feeling a droplet roll down from under my towel and tickle my stomach.
— You look… — she slowly ran her eyes from top to bottom — just right. — And handed me the little towel. — This is for your hair, Lily.
— Don’t call me that, — I frowned, clutching my towel tighter as if it could hide not just my breasts but the whole fact of my new body.
— Benjamin’s not in the paperwork anymore, — she shrugged and started wrapping that ridiculous piece of fabric around my head, turning me into some parody of a girl from a shampoo commercial. — Only Lily now.
Lily. For fuck’s sake. I don’t even know why I agreed to let them pick a random name for me during the registration process at the transformation center for people who’d changed because of the “chrysalis” virus. No—wait, I do know. I didn’t care at the time. I was sitting there alone in a room with some bureaucrat, a guy of about forty, who wasn’t even hiding the fact he was staring at what had grown on my chest in the four weeks since I caught the virus. And I didn’t care about that either. I just wanted it over with—wanted the doctors to let me go, so I could go home and get absolutely wasted. And now I’m “Lily.” Jesus. I wouldn’t even name my own daughter that. But Samantha doesn’t seem to get that.
— My hair’s shorter than yours, Sam. It hasn’t grown out like… — I gritted my teeth, refusing to say “breasts,” and feeling the towel tugging at the skin near my temples. — What is this, a circus?
— It’s not a circus, — her voice was too soft, the voice of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. — This is a women’s bathhouse, Lily. This is how it’s done here. — She adjusted the knot on top of my head and stepped back to look at me. — Cute.
I swallowed hard. That word hit my pride all over again. A grown man—almost forty—standing there wrapped in a towel, with that stupid turban on his head. And she calls it “cute.”